SAFE AT LAST.
The night was long. The night was dark. Slowly the fog closed them in.
It grew rainier and more dismal. But on the summit of the crag Eustace
Le Neve stood aloft, and waved his arms, and shouted. He lit a match
and shaded it. The dull glare of it through the mist just faintly
reached the eyes of the anxious watchers on the beach below. From a
dozen lips there rose an answering shout. The pair on the crag half
heard its last echoes. Eustace put his hands to his mouth and cried
aloud once more, in stentorian tones, "All right. Cleer's here. We can
hold out till morning."
Trevennack alone heard the words. But he repeated them so instantly
that his wife felt sure it was true hearing, not insane hallucination.
The sea was gaining on them now. It had risen almost up to the face of
the cliffs. Reluctantly they turned along the path by the gully, and
mounting the precipice waited and watched till morning on the tor that
overlooks Michael's Crag from the Penmorgan headland.
Every now and again, through that livelong night, Trevennack whispered
in his wife's ear, "If only I chose to spread my wings, and launch
myself, I could fly across and carry her." And each time that brave
woman, holding his hand in her own and smoothing it gently, answered in
her soft voice, "But then the secret would be out, and Cleer's life
would be spoiled, and they'd call you a madman. Wait till morning, dear
Michael; do, do, wait till morning."
And Trevennack, struggling hard with the mad impulse in his heart,
replied with all his soul, "I will; I will; for Cleer's sake and yours,
I'll try to keep it down. I'll not be mad. I'll be strong and restrain
it."
For he knew he was insane, in his inmost soul, almost as well as he
knew his name was Michael the Archangel.
On the island, meanwhile, Eustace Le Neve and Cleer Trevennack sat
watching out the weary night, and longing for the dawn to make the way
back possible. At least, Cleer did, for as to Eustace, in spite of rain
and fog and cold and darkness, he was by no means insensible to the
unwonted pleasure of so long a tete-a-tete, in such romantic
circumstances, with the beautiful Cornish girl. To be sure the waves
roared, and the drizzle dripped, and the seabirds flapped all round
them. But many waters will not quench love. Cleer was by his side,
holding his hand in hers in the dark for pure company's sake, because
she was so frightened; and as the night wore on they talked at last of
many things. They were prisoners there for five mortal hours or so,
alone, together; and they might as well make the best of it by being
sociable with one another.
There could be no denying, however, that it was cold and damp and dark
and uncomfortable. The rain came beating down upon them, as they sat
there side by side on that exposed rock. The spray from the breakers
blew in with the night wind; the light breeze struck chill on their wet
clothes and faces. After awhile Eustace began a slow tour of inspection
over the crag, seeking some cave or rock shelter, some projecting ledge
of stone on the leeward side that might screen their backs at least
from the driving showers. Cleer couldn't be left alone; she clung to
his hand as he felt his way about the islet, with uncertain steps,
through the gloom and fog. Once he steadied himself on a jutting piece
of the rock as he supposed, when to his immense surprise--wh'r'r'r--it
rose from under his hand, with a shrill cry of alarm, and fluttered
wildly seaward. It was some sleeping gull, no doubt, disturbed
unexpectedly in its accustomed resting-place. Eustace staggered and
almost fell. Cleer supported him with her arm. He accepted her aid
gratefully. They stumbled on in the dark once more, lighting now and
again for a minute or two one of his six precious matches--he had no
more in his case--and exploring as well as they might the whole broken
surface of that fissured pinnacle. "I'm so glad you smoke, Mr. Le
Neve," Cleer said, simply, as he lit one. "For if you didn't, you know,
we'd have been left here all night in utter darkness."
At last, in a nook formed by the weathered joints, Eustace found a
rugged niche, somewhat dryer than the rest, and laid Cleer gently down
in it, on a natural spring seat of tufted rock-plants. Then he settled
down beside her, with what cheerfulness he could muster up, and taking
off his wet coat, spread it on top across the cleft, like a tent roof,
to shelter them. It was no time, indeed, to stand upon ceremony. Cleer
recognized as much, and nestled close to his side, like a sensible girl
as she was, so as to keep warm by mere company; while Eustace, still
holding her hand, just to assure her of his presence, placed himself in
such an attitude, leaning before her and above her, as to protect her
as far as possible from the drizzling rainfall through the gap in front
of them. There they sat till morning, talking gradually of many things,
and growing more and more confidential, in spite of cold and wet, as
they learnt more and more, with each passing hour, of each other's
standpoint. There are some situations where you get to know people
better in a few half-hours together than you could get to know them in
months upon months of mere drawing-room acquaintance. And this was one
of them. Before morning dawned, Eustace Le Neve and Cleer Trevennack
felt just as if they had known one another quite well for years. They
were old and trusted friends already. Old friends--and even something
more than that. Though no word of love was spoken between them, each
knew of what the other was thinking. Eustace felt Cleer loved him;
Cleer felt Eustace loved her. And in spite of rain and cold and fog and
darkness they were almost happy--before dawn came to interrupt their
strange tete-a-tete on the islet.
As soon as day broke Eustace looked out from their eyrie on the
fissured peak, and down upon the troubled belt of water below. The sea
was now ebbing, and the passage between the rock and the mainland
though still full (for it was never dry even at spring-tide low water)
was fairly passable by this time over the natural bridge of
stepping-stones. He clambered down the side, giving his hand to Cleer
from ledge to ledge as he went. The fog had lifted a little, and on the
opposite headland they could just dimly descry the weary watchers
looking eagerly out for them. Eustace put his hands to his mouth, and
gave a loud halloo. The sound of the breakers was less deafening now;
his voice carried to the mainland. Trevennack, who had sat under a
tarpaulin through the livelong night, watching and waiting with anxious
heart for the morning, raised an answering shout, and waved his hat in
his hand frantically. St. Michael's Crag had not betrayed its trust.
That was the motto of the Trevennacks--"Stand fast, St.
Michael's!"--under the crest of the rocky islet, castled and mured,
flamboyant. Eustace reached the bottom of the rock, and, wading in the
water himself, or jumping into the deepest parts, helped Cleer across
the stepping-stones. Meanwhile, the party on the cliff had hurried down
by the gully path; and a minute later Cleer was in her mother's arms,
while Trevennack held her hand, inarticulate with joy, and bent over
her eagerly.
"Oh, mother," Cleer cried, in her simple girlish naivete, "Mr. Le
Neve's been so kind to me! I don't know how I should ever have got
through the night without him. It was so good of him to come. He's been
SUCH a help to me."
The father and mother both looked into her eyes--a single searching
glance--and understood perfectly. They grasped Le Neve's hand. Tears
rolled down their cheeks. Not a word was spoken, but in a certain
silent way all four understood one another.
"Where's Tyrrel?" Eustace asked.
And Mrs. Trevennack answered, "Carried home, severely hurt. He was
bruised on the rocks. But we hope not dangerously. The doctor's been to
see him, we hear, and finds no bones broken. Still, he's terribly
battered about, in those fearful waves, and it must be weeks, they tell
us, before he can quite recover."
But Cleer, as was natural, thought more of the man who had struggled
through and reached her than of the man who had failed in the attempt,
though he suffered all the more for it. This is a world of the
successful. In it, as in most other planets I have visited, people make
a deal more fuss over the smallest success than over the noblest
failure.
It was no moment for delay. Eustace turned on his way at once, and ran
up to Penmorgan. And the Trevennacks returned, very wet and cold, in
the dim gray dawn to their rooms at Gunwalloe.
As soon as they were alone--Cleer put safely to bed--Trevennack looked
at his wife. "Lucy," he said, slowly, in a disappointed tone, "after
this, of course, come what may, they must marry."
"They must," his wife answered. "There's no other way left. And
fortunately, dear, I could see from the very first, Cleer likes him,
and he likes her."
The father paused a moment. It wasn't quite the match he had hoped for
a Trevennack of Trevennack. Then he added, very fervently, "Thank God
it was HIM--not that other man, Tyrrel! Thank God, the first one fell
in the water and was hurt. What should we ever have done--oh, what
should we have done, Lucy, if she'd been cut off all night long on that
lonely crag face to face with the man who murdered our dear boy
Michael?"
Mrs. Trevennack drew a long breath. Then she spoke earnestly once more.
"Dear heart," she said, looking deep into his clear brown eyes, "now
remember, more than ever, Cleer's future is at stake. For Cleer's sake,
more than ever, keep a guard on yourself, Michael; watch word and deed,
do nothing foolish."
"You can trust me!" Trevennack answered, drawing himself up to his full
height, and looking proudly before him. "Cleer's future is at stake.
Cleer has a lover now. Till Cleer is married, I'll give you my sacred
promise no living soul shall ever know in any way she's an archangel's
daughter."